


Dead Men

by Anonymous



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020), DC Extended Universe, DCU
Genre: And Lots of It, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eye Gouging, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roman is a member of the club, Scarification, Victor isn't that lucky, hostel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:53:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Roman is a member of The Court of Owls, a society that promotes the exploration of a member's sadistic urges for a price. Several months ago, Roman purchased one Victor Zsasz and has been working on molding him into something terrifying. He's made some progress, but Victor is a stubborn creature.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: Anonymous





	Dead Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissNaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/gifts).



Beneath the overpowering stench of dust and black mold growing in the dank caulking between the tiles, old blood hangs heavy.   
  
Roman does despise that smell. You’d think, with all of the money the Court of Owls membership costs year after year, they’d do something about it. Apparently, cleanliness is only afforded to the upper levels and plush security offices. Not that it is some insane surprise that his hefty check is put back into pockets than used to hire a decent cleaning crew. It’s only been a few minutes and he misses the subzero temperatures outside. Nose already frostbitten from the scant seconds it took to get from the backseat of his Rolls and into the facility. He does so miss the crisp leather interior and the small selection of bourbon.   
  
Burying his nose into the fur-lined collar of his jacket, he uses gloved fingers to flip on the overhead lights, illuminating the dark hallway. It looks so much different during the day, quiet and empty, doors to the numerous rooms open and airing out. One, at the end of the hall, remains tightly close.   
  
Beside him, his companion coughs. “Will that be all?”   
  
Roman rolls his eyes. He turns to regard his driver, Charles, or was it, Carlsson, standing there, shifting on his feet. Useless man, was there no better driver his father could send him? “Go wait in the car. I won’t be long.”   
  
A profound look of relief rushes across Clyde’s features. He straightens up and dips his head. “I will keep the car running.”   
  
He toddles off, quick as he can back toward the clean elevator behind them to reach the lobby. There is no other way out. Roman waits for the doors to shut before he continues his trek down the quiet hallway. The rooms that dot the walls are partially open, revealing the dark and dank insides, empty and reeking of bleach. Above him, a number of pipes creak and sing quietly from the cold filtering in from the frigid air above ground. Down here, it is slightly warmer, perhaps a few degrees closer to 0. There are a few patches of ice that glint under the yellow lights.   
  
The Court should really see to getting a generator or something, the holding cells should really be more comfortable for high-paying members like him. His club lapel pin, stuck to his coat’s breast pocket, is cold as ice. The edges bite his fingers when he slips it off his jacket after he stops in front of the final door, locked tight at the end of the hall. A small indent in the steel door sits above the handle. Roman places the face of the owl’s head pin inside.   
  
A soft click. Roman takes the handle and opens the door.   
  
Fresh and old blood mixed with bile and the stink of urine assaults him. It is only years of exposure that keeps him from turning to the side and retching. Still, the sting and clench in his throat come anyway, just from how badly his body wants to clear the stench from his nose. Leaning partially inside, Roman reaches out and flicks on the light.   
  
The scene is a grotesque one. Upon the concrete floor is blood, pools of it, glistening black with only a slight maroon hue, frozen. It fans out along the cracks in the concrete, an intricate spider web pattern that leads back to the source, a man’s body, ripped apart. Eyes clouded over and grey stare unblinking at the ceiling, mouth slightly open in a horrified and soundless scream. Below his chin, his throat has been ripped out leaving nothing but shredded meat behind. His abdominal cavity fairs far worse, guts having been pulled out and, of all things, sorted into neat piles of viscera.   
  
The dead man is nude. His genitals have been removed and, upon further inspection, tossed aside to the room’s distant corner.   
  
Roman curls his lip. The man’s been dead for what might be twenty-four hours or less, thank god. There is no evidence of bloat, not yet. That would have been too disgusting, even for him.   
  
A little rattle, chain over concrete sounds. Roman flicks his eyes up, deeper into the room, and upon the body of the dead man’s killer.   
  
The man is emaciated and young, curled up against the wall in the back of the room for what scant warmth he can find. There are no clothes on him, Roman had seen to that a week ago, with only dried blood covering his pale skin. He does not move when Roman shuts the door to the room, enclosing the two of them and the dead man inside.   
  
He only buries his face into his knees as Roman clicks his tongue.   
  
“Well, I don’t know if I should be impressed or disgusted by this level of savagery.” Roman takes a few steps forward. He tries and fails to seek out a pathway toward the body without having to step through the blood. There is far too much to avoid. “I suppose that’s what you get with two rats in a cage.”   
  
The man shivers. He tilts his head up slightly, peering over his knees with bloodshot eyes, so dark they’re just pools of black. His lashes are wet, clumped together by the frozen remains of tears.   
  
Roman sighs. “Oh my god, have you been crying? Grow up.”   
  
The man glares, furious and hot, before he flicks his eyes down, looking at the body, and turns. Though it’s quiet, Roman still hears the retching and near-silent splatter of bile and undigested meat against the concrete. Though the smell in the room could not get much worse, the hot rush of vomit does little to help it.   
  
When the vomiting stops, Roman watches him wipe his chapped mouth with the back of his hand. “Fuck you.”   
  
“That is no way to speak to your provider, Victor,” Roman tuts. “After all, I’ve done for you.”   
  
Victor, though he really shouldn’t be allowed his name at this point, snarls weakly. He coughs halfway through, mouth stained with spit and blood as sucks in a shallow breath. “D-Done for me? _This?”_ _  
_ _  
_ “Yes, this.” It’s like talking to a particularly stubborn and idiotic child. “Honestly, you would have been dead by now if I wasn’t as nice. I’ve given you your own room, water, company, and food. Well, I suppose one of those is no longer applicable.”   
  
“You-,” Victor puts his rust-colored hands on the floor. He moves to push himself up, swaying slightly. His skin stretches taut across his ribs littered with dozens of scars, some old and some not. There’s one fresh bite mark on Victor’s inner thigh, very close to the surgical mess between his legs.“You- You were _starving us.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Roman rolls his eyes. “I was not. In fact, I was on my way here to bring you and,” he hesitates. Fuck, why are the cattle’s names so hard to remember? “I was going to bring you and your friend a nice dinner to celebrate the New Year. But I see you got too impatient. That’s not my fault.”   
  
“You were not-”   
  
“See, this is why you keep getting punished, you and your excuses. I didn’t make you kill your poor roommate. You did that.” It’s a shame Victor’s lost all of that attractive tan he first had, Roman can’t tell if his statement makes his toy pale. Maybe, if Victor behaves, he’ll take him to a tanning salon. “I certainly didn’t force you to eat him.”   
  
Victor stumbles forward, toward him. It’s one of the more pitiful things Roman’s seen in his life. That’s including Victor’s tiny excuse for a cock. Well, included, past tense.   
  
He doesn’t get very far. Not with the iron collar around his throat attached to the floor by one thick chain. Victor pulls against it, leaning as far as he can to be near Roman. It’s hardly intimidating, even when Victor had been healthy, more muscular, and far more feral than he is now.   
  
“He was going to eat _me._ He, you starved him just like me. Put us together with no food or water-” Victor sways back, sucking in a deep breath. Roman watches him catch sight of the corpse, and he quickly averts his gaze. Focuses instead on the dirt beneath his toenails, shuddering slightly. “You wanted me to.”   
  
“I’m sorry,” Roman says. “Are you me? I didn’t realize I had a telepath in my possession. What am I thinking of right now? Since you know, oh, so much.”   
  
Victor looks back up. Perfect. Roman get’s a gorgeous view of that roughed up face right as his knuckles make contact with Victor’s nose. The man collapses into the mess of viscera and blood below him. Having no energy to scream, Victor only manages a mumbled whine.   
  
“You don’t get to tell me what I want. What I think. What I _do._ Are you fucking kidding me?” Roman shakes his hand out. The little punk better not have bruised his knuckles. He didn’t come all the way out here to get bad-mouthed by a former pretty boy turned skin sack. Really, whoever taught Victor manners should be gutted and hung from the nearest gargoyle. It’s what they rightly deserve.   
  
At his feet, Victor rolls onto his stomach. Shaking, he tries to place his hands on the ground to push himself up. His arms tremble at the effort. Roman gets an idea.   
  
Lifting his foot, Roman brings it down hard on the center of Victor’s back, pushing him down. Victor goes with a grunt, coughing into the pool of black blood below. Roman removes his foot, dragging the pointed toe of his Louboutin’s down Victor’s cheek, and under his jaw. Tilting Victor’s head up, he meets furious brown with his smug blue.   
  
“Tell me you’re sorry.” Roman waits a moment. “Go on.”   
  
Victor doesn’t bare his teeth. Good, so stupid mutts can learn. He stares up at Roman, defiant and openly disgusted. It takes the dumb man a moment to wet his dry lips. “I’m sorry.”   
  
It’s nice. Pretty, even, but it’s not the apology Roman wants. “I don’t believe you.”   
  
“You said-”   
  
“I changed my mind,” Roman presses the tip of his shoe to Victor’s chapped lips. “I want you to show me how sorry you are.”   
  
Victor narrows his eyes, looking up at Roman, searching. Very cute, the little remnants of innocence that stubbornly remain. Roman has done his best to lengthen the time between every ounce of dignity he takes from Victor. Until, eventually, there is nothing but a shallow husk of a man he can mold into something a lot more palatable. Innocence and ignorance are nice, for a little while, but everything has an expiration date. Including bratty young men who think mommy and daddy are still out there planning a rescue.   
  
It takes a moment and Roman pressing the toe of his shoe harder against Victor’s mouth for meaning to spread over his face. Instantly, nearly a minute after, red blossoms across his cheeks. A soft, defiant growl echoes off the walls, and Roman, so deliciously tickled by Victor’s disgust, pulls his foot back so he can swing it forward. The wet smack of Victor collapsing into the pool of guts is absolutely delightful. More so is the way the man flails in the disgusting mixture, rolling out of it with desperate energy that hardly lasts long enough to see him through standing. Not that Roman would bother letting him stand. He’s there in the next second, pushing his shoe towards Victor once more.   
  
“Go on,” Roman watches. “I haven’t got all day.”   
  
This time Victor opens his mouth, anger leaving in a soft exhale as stoic resignation takes over. While it kills Roman to do any work of his own, especially with his toys, he pushes the tip of his shoe forward against Victor’s lips. Flicking the tip of his pink tongue out, Victor scrunches his nose as he begins the process of lapping up the grime on Roman’s shoe. Around them the silence grows, oppressive and overwhelming, drawing attention to the soft puffs of breath from Victor only broken apart by light noises of disgust. Roman watches, enrapt, with how dutifully Victor furiously cleans his shoe.   
  
No surprise when the hot tickle of arousal begins to grow in his stomach. He lifts his shoe higher, Victor ducks his head obediently, and starts to drag his tongue down the rubber grooves to the thicker portion of his heel. His cheeks have turned a beautiful shade of pale pink. However, to Roman’s disappointment drool flows down the sides of Victor’s mouth. Bad boy doesn’t know how to swallow, huh? He can fix that.   
  
He waits a moment longer, to let Victor grimace and further grow ill from the taste of dirt and old blood on his tongue. There is something to admire about the sheer humiliation that colors Victor’s pale cheeks, glistening from the rivers of spit in his short, rough stubble. But, all good things must come to an end. He pulls his shoe away and sets it down on the floor.   
  
“Bratty little boy, aren’t you?” Roman reaches out, taking Victor’s wet chin in his fingers. “You think you can get away with just opening your mouth and licking my boots like a dutiful little submissive? Fat fucking chance, baby.”   
  
Victor narrows his eyes. “But I did what you asked-”   
  
“I didn’t think I needed to go through every fucking step, but if you’re far too dumb to figure out the logical next step on your own. Well, I guess I have to provide a demonstration.” Roman steps around Victor, patting his cheek as he goes. Feeling curious eyes on his back, Roman reaches into his coat pocket where the familiar weight of his knife resides. He curls his fingers around the hilt and draws it free, flipping the blade out in his fingers. The blade, curved at the tip and serrated halfway down, shimmers with its marbled steel design. A birthday gift from his father, his favorite.   
  
Roman tilts the knife and looks back at Victor, pretty wide eyes falling upon the blade. He takes a cautious step back. Roman can’t help rolling his eyes. “It’s not for you.”   
  
_Not yet, not now._ _  
_ _  
_ Humming softly, Roman looks down at the body, tapping the knife against his lip for a moment, considering the paleness of its mouth, the rust-colored blood staining exposed bone, the glazed over gray eyes. Smiling, Roman moves closer, crouching down and cradling the dead man’s face. Would be a shame, to let such nice eyes go to waste.   
  
Behind him Victor gags as Roman pushes the tip of the blade behind the man’s eyelid. Careful not to burst or cut it, he drags the knife in a circle, sawing through the bit of resistance that comes easily. It takes the length of a minute before Roman pops out the white, jelly globe and plucks it up with two gloved fingers. Though the leather protects him from feeling the surface, the phantom sense of cold slime tingles against his skin. Turning to Victor, Roman smiles and waves the eye.   
  
“All in the wrist, Victor, baby, all in the wrist.” Roman stands and Victor, still on the ground, tries to push himself up.   
  
“No, _no, Roman,”_ Victor skitters back across the ground, frantic, cockroach-like in how he tries to desperately hide away in the wall cracks that are far too small. “You _can’t_ .”   
  
“Now you’re just being obtuse, Victor. Daddy can do whatever he wants, remember? Now, open wide. Daddy is going to teach you how to swallow.” Roman smiles, face tight, that do-what-I-tell-you-or-I’ll-make it-worse smile. There have been a plethora of times Roman’s used that over Victor’s stay, but the lesson never seems to stick. That is apparent now, in how he gathers up the little strength he has left, what was given to him by his cannibalism the night before. Roman isn’t very much a fan of getting his hands dirty, but there is something about lending a forceful hand in the transformation of a man into a simpering pile of obedient flesh.   
  
Keeping the eye safe in the palm of his glove, Roman approaches, and descends on Victor with calculated violence. He is not a fighter, Roman has no need to learn such unneeded brutality with the men he controls, but against such a weak opponent he outperforms Victor with the skill of a champion boxer. Feigning a cautious attack to the right he switches suddenly with a brutal kick to Victor’s unprotected left side, digging the tip of his shoe into the soft skin below Victor’s floating ribs. A direct hit to the kidneys that stiffens and straightens out Victor’s back from shock. Roman continues his assault, coming in close, folding the knife away, and slamming the hilt into Victor’s temple. A howl echoes off the walls, pitched high and desperate. Roman nearly stumbles over himself, eager to get Victor on his back.   
  
It takes a bit of flailing about, there is some strength left in those emaciated arms. The knife goes sliding across the cold floor when Roman pins Victor’s wrists together above his head. Worse, however, is when the bitch shuts his mouth, baring his teeth up in a bratty display of disobedience. Roman fixes that by slamming his knee down onto the mess of half-healed surgical scars where Victor’s dick once was.   
  
The moment he screams, Roman drops the eye down onto his pink tongue and slaps a hand over his mouth. Watching Victor’s eyes widen and seeing his face go a light shade of green is the sexiest thing Roman has seen all month. Digging his fingers into Victor’s cheeks staves off the growing arousal for the moment, a strand of hair falling into his eyes, he wets his lips.   
  
“Gonna have to swallow it whole baby,” Roman whispers, frantic. “Swallow or you’re going to have to chew up that eye in your teeth. I don’t think you want that.”   
  
Victor gags and retches beneath his hand. Roman sits down completely on top of Victor’s hips, fascinated. There’s a gurgled choke, tears rising in the corner of Victor’s eyes as they roll back leaving only a slit of pure white. It’s animalistic, the distress beneath him, like trying to force poison out of his skin by sheer will. Roman is hard now, harder than he’s ever been in his fucking life. Nothing, _nothing,_ has or will ever come close to this. It makes him regret not bringing a camera.   
  
Finally, _expectedly,_ Victor, sick from the eye soaking his taste buds, has to be rid of it. Roman’s hand is immovable and throwing him off impossible. He has to get it down or else vomit behind the stone wall that is Roman’s gloved palm. Roman can tell when it finally gets to that point. The watering of Victor’s eyes, the twitching of his throat, the second before Victor’s throat bobs and Roman can see, faintly, the little bulge of something sliding down his throat. Nothing, no word no damn sentence can accurately describe the wave of arousal that follows. Roman, breathless, drags his hips down against Victor’s mess of scars. He moans at the wounded keen muffled beneath his hand.   
  
Roman drops it, staring down at Victor as he turns his head to the side and desperately tries to cough up the eye. Useless, but it’s a good enough distraction for Roman to stand up and flip Victor onto his stomach.   
  
“Oh, baby, you really are a fucking diamond in the rough, aren’t you?” Victor tries to push himself up, but all it takes to keep him pinned is a hand between his shoulder blades. “I’ve been coming to the court’s auctions for years, never bet on anyone before. You really are fucking special.”   
  
“Fuck _you,”_ Victor gags weakly. “Fuck-”   
  
“How are you going to do that, sweetheart?” Roman fumbles with his belt, undoing his zipper just enough to slide himself out. He’s throbbing already, cock red and leaking from the tip. He usually takes his time, but he can’t wait to dismantle Victor piece by piece. “You don’t even have a cock anymore, baby. But that’s ok, you didn’t have much of one before anyhow.”   
  
Victor trembles, clawing at the ground, snarling weakly into the old blood. Roman ignores it, spitting into his palm and slicking his cock up enough so it won’t chafe him. Victor’s comfort doesn’t even come to mind.   
  
“You are going to be so beautiful when I’m done with you, baby. A fucking killing machine just for me.” Roman slaps his cock against one plump cheek. Still enough fat left on Victor to keep his ass firm enough to enjoy. He takes a moment, just enjoying the way Victor jolts with every slap from his cock before he grabs one cheek and pulls it aside, lining up the head of his cock.   
  
Sinking inside is always a tight squeeze, sinfully perfect. There’s some initial resistance, there always is, right as he pops the thick head inside. Victor wheezes out a kittenish protest, looking over his shoulder to glare up at Roman’s wide smirk. It doesn’t take much, not really, to get Victor to lose the angry glare. One rough thrust deeper makes him drop his mouth open and those pretty eyes flutter shut.   
  
“Shh, don’t cry, baby, daddy’s here.”   
  
There is something so deliciously disgusting about fucking Victor on top of his kill. He is not a religious person, not really, but for this moment Roman revels in the evilness of it all. Simply because he’s better, because he’s stronger, and because he is the God of Victor’s now very small world. Like an ant under a boot, Roman revels in the growing wrath that takes root in Victor’s vulnerable, decaying mind. It’s pure ecstasy.   
  
He is not, however, without mercy. Roman, despite the insatiable desire for sadistic cruelty, can give rewards when they are due. Victor did a very good job, he needs to know how much Roman appreciates this first step in the right direction. And, despite liking Victor on his stomach, needs him on his back.   
  
Slowing down, Roman draws his hand away from Victor’s shoulders. Victor in return goes to push himself up and Roman lets him do that, sliding out of him so he can grip Victor’s boney hips and flip him onto his back once more. Confused, Victor goes down with a thump, chest covered in black blood, staring up at Roman with wide eyes. It doesn’t take much to lift one of Victor’s legs over his shoulder, shuffling closer and sliding back inside with a grunt.   
  
“What,” Victor swallows down a gasp, Roman rocking back in deep and bumping his raw walls. “What are you doing-”   
  
“Quiet, baby,” Roman clicks his tongue, surveying the bloody canvas. An idea comes to him, a fleeting, suggestive thought born out of half-formed, idiotic lust. Yet, _yet,_ sends Roman searching the dirt floor for where his knife landed. He spots it a foot from where he has Victor pinned and quickly gropes for it while Victor weakly tries to shove him off. Roman watches Victor pale at the curve of the blade while he draws himself back.   
  
“Please-What-” Victor babbles while Roman leans across him. Looking, eyes raking over the curves of bone beneath skin stained red from blood, seeking out the perfect spot. There, he finds it, delighted. Victor panics beneath him, clenching down on Roman so tight for a second he must dig his fingers into Victor’s thigh and ride out the painful whip of sensation through his body. Nearly comes, bending in half and cursing through a pang of staved orgasm. Victor catches his breath during that moment, only to lose it when one of Roman’s hands latches around his throat.   
  
The other, cradling the knife, hovers above his chest and over his heart. “I want to give you something, Victor. A memento of what you are going to become.”   
  
It’s awfully cryptic and over-dramatic, Roman will bemoan later, but then, he nearly drools when he says it. The fear that flashes across Victor’s face only pushes Roman to lower the knife, far too giddy when he drags it across his skin. Victor doesn’t howl, scream, or cry, merely whimpers as he watches the blade dip beneath and disappears inside him with no effort. Roman cuts a long line, unsteady and wavering, over his heart before he pulls away. Blood, red and bright bubbles out of the cut and washes away the old staining its path. Victor drops his head back and weeps openly, not once, however, raising a hand to pull Roman’s away.   
  
What a good boy.   
  
Putting the knife back into his pocket, Roman leans down and kisses Victor’s jaw. “So good, Victor. So good for me.”   
  
Victor growls, weak and pathetic. Roman draws back, looking down at Victor who quickly throws an arm over his eyes to hide himself. His shy boy, his perfect boy. He cannot have Victor look away during this planned moment of transformation. There is only one way to get his attention again. Roman lets his free hand trail down his stomach, across his abdomen, and come to rest over his cock. Victor arches his back and wheezes out a confused sound as Roman starts to rub his palm up and down.   
  
While there may be nothing more than a wrinkled patch of skin devoid of testicles and a cock, merely a hole with tubing for urination, Roman made sure that there had been enough sensitive skin left behind. What is the point of having a toy if he can’t make it sing anymore? Clearly, Victor’s been far too preoccupied with other duties to have noticed that he can still _feel_ there. Roman’s grin is positively manic.   
  
“ _Feels good,_ doesn’t it?” Roman presses down harder and Victor’s mouth falls open, his arm falling back slightly to show more of his face. “I can be kind, see?”   
  
“Wait-please-”   
  
“I said shh, honey. So shut the _fuck_ up.”   
  
Victor tightens and releases around his cock with every purposeful press of his palm. He’s more forceful than he would be with a woman, but, to be honest, it’s a lot like petting one. No doubt the leather from his gloves provides some delicious texture against the raw skin of Victor’s new privates. Especially if the way Victor spazzes around his hand gives any indication. Eventually, over the course of a minute, both of Victor’s hands end up on the ground, scratching against the floor as he arches his back. Roman fucks him hard, aiming for that one spot that makes Victor’s eyes roll make and the whites shine.   
  
It’s beautiful, how good someone looks on his cock, taking it like it was the only thing they were put on this Earth to do. Roman can’t last long, not like this. Victor starts panting, wheezing fucked-out whines of _please_ and _ah,_ trying to hang onto something as Roman pushes him further and further over the edge. Eventually, Victor finishes, only moments before him, tightening up like a bowstring, spasming around Roman’s cock while whitish clear fluid drools out from around his glove.   
  
“Fuck, baby, even cum like a girl-” Roman grits his teeth, cumming deep inside Victor’s body. Shaking through orgasm, Roman draws his hand away from Victor’s crotch, sneering at the fluid dripping off his fingers. Without thinking, he offers it to Victor’s lips. To his surprise, Victor’s pink tongue slips out and dutifully cleans his finish from Roman’s fingers. Tears cascade down his cheeks, a sob making his entire body shake as his body attentively milks him dry.   
  
Well, he’ll be damned. Looks like he’s closer to having his obedient dog than he thought.   
  
  



End file.
